


Table Salt

by wreathed



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Dubious Consent, Ficlet, Gangbang, M/M, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: Edward in the mutineers' camp. Hickey has asked Edward to do his bit for morale.
Relationships: Lt Edward Little/Other(s), Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 14
Kudos: 36
Collections: Fingerbang #2





	Table Salt

Hickey does not join them. He is not a man who likes to share, Edward suspects, and has begun to maintain a captain-like distance. As a reward for those men who have remained loyal and favoured, Hickey has asked Edward to do his bit for morale, in those words. As is usual for Hickey, he had assumed an expression that suggested he had just finished a remarkable comedic routine at a song and supper room and was awaiting the resultant bout of delighted applause.

It had not occurred to Edward to put too much of his steadily waning strength towards refusing, and to his surprise he found he did not entirely want to. It was good to be touched. It was good to be useful. Dignity has no currency here.

They put him over a sea chest and take off his greatcoat. There is something queasy about being meat on the table out here, of any sort. The greatest shame of it is for them to have seen his body as it is at present: reduced and bruised, and that the sight of it would still be welcome to the men so starved as they are.

Pilkington pulls Edward’s trousers down past the knees and buggers him; Hoar goes the same way after; Armitage braves the yielding intimacy of his mouth, blinking down occasionally at the sight of Edward’s face beneath him. Des Voeux, it seems, has had the will for tumescence abandon him, and so relieves himself against the back of Edward’s bare thighs instead with a distasteful sound of amused satisfaction, as though what comes out of his prick and onto Edward is immaterial as long as it’s something. Edward is already well acquainted with the emissions of himself and others; this is only another sort. He is a vessel: there to meet them like dirt on the ground, except warm and breathing.

Tozer comes to him last. Edward’s chest sags in relief; he had wondered whether Tozer would want him like this at all, smelling of more than grease and hunger and the dry scrape of wind-beaten shale. Tozer’s ordinary laying of him was more private than this, but no more loving.

“Edward, Edward,” Tozer says, his Christian name coming from Tozer’s mouth over and over, each time a reminiscence of how Edward had stood in the fog and confirmed it correct with that sick little nod of his head. It’s too familiar, but then so is this: Tozer’s thumb pushing through the tears and spit and spend caking his cheeks as easy as a plough through loam; worse than the sodomy, closer than foes. _They are us, Edward. Remind them._

“Edward,” Tozer says, his thumb deep in Edward’s mouth and slick with the taste of what covers Edward’s skin, the fingers of Tozer’s other hand already at the sodden mess that’s been left dripping out of him. “I don’t rightly know which end of you would be sweeter.”


End file.
